I tell stories!

The therapeutic act of writing

“What I do” she said,” is that whenever I am in a shitty mood, okay, shitty might be an understatement, but still. Whenever I am in a shitty mood, I take a blank piece of paper, and write, furiously. Then, once done, I tear it to bits, and sleep”
“Why?” I said.
“What why?”
“Why do you tear it up?” I said.
“Because if anybody else saw it, I would be in a position of disadvantage”

I remember, once, while looking back at my diary, I noted that most of the entries were mapped to the not-so-good events. I remember coming up with something on the lines of: ‘I only need to write when things are shitty’

It was bad.
And scary.

It meant that I would write only when I was in a bad mood. Back then, all the writing I used to do was in the diary. So I guess the fear was well founded. Because, it sort of did cramp, limit the range of emotions, or rather, the things you could write. It could either be a rant, or a semi-philosophical piece.

So, yeah.

All through life, this current phase, one question has always kept wanting new, and improved answers. That question is: Why do I write?

The answers have varied mostly, and that is not to say I have revised the answer at one point, or the other. No. It has been a rather stack-based approach to things, with a certain polishing aspect to things. I have added. I have also refined.

I write because writing is being. There is no other way of existing.

Sometimes, when I write, I go to places, I had no clue existed. I start with something, and I end up with something. When the something I began with happens to be a problem, a not so great situation; I most of the times end up with at least a little more clarity. And most of the times, that is all that is needed.

So. Yeah.

Yesterday, and yes, it’s yesterday because it was three days before, that I had written this post down, up till the ‘So. Yeah.’ Today, I’m writing the rest of it.

So.

Yesterday, post shower, after perhaps a gap of, okay, not perhaps, but rather exactly, eight days, I made another entry in my journal, #18, with no title to it. During the shower I had been angry, or at least had rather wanted to be angry, wanted to shout, wanted to rant; but couldn’t. I was in this semi-confused, and irritable state when I sat down, my breakfast growing colder by the second. And I wrote.

I miss writing like this, in a flurry. Writing when things hit me. Which is I can’t be sure, but, is bad. But more on that later.

So. Yeah, I wrote, and I wrote about how it was a bit of an issue, being able to step into other people’s shoes, because, then you couldn’t even be angry with them fully. It turned a bit philosophical, and I considered whether cramping an emotion, as anger, was really an issue or not. In this case, I ended up with more questions, than answers, but, I was angry no more.